His mother, in a virgin's arms arrayed,
In form and habit of a Spartan maid,
Or like Harpalyce, the pride of Thrace,
Who tires swift steeds, and scours the woodland glade,
And outstrips rapid Hebrus in the race.
So fair the goddess seemed, apparelled for the chase.

XLIII. Bare were her knees, and from her shoulders hung
The wonted bow, kept handy for the prey
Her flowing raiment in a knot she strung,
And loosed her tresses with the winds to play.
"Ho, Sirs!" she hails them, "saw ye here astray
Ought of my sisters, girt in huntress wise
With quiver and a spotted lynx-skin gay,
Or following on the foaming boar with cries?"
Thus Venus spake, and thus fair Venus' son replies;

XLIV. "Nought of thy sisters have I heard or seen.
What name, O maiden, shall I give to thee,
For mortal never had thy voice or mien?
O Goddess surely, whether Nymph I see,
Or Phoebus' sister; whosoe'er thou be,
Be kind, for strangers and in evil case
We roam, tost hither by the stormy sea.
Say, who the people, what the clime and place,
And many a victim's blood thy hallowed shrine shall grace."

XLV. "Nay, nay, to no such honour I aspire."
Said Venus, "But a simple maid am I,
And 'tis the manner of the maids of Tyre